The world is infinite in its possibilities
by ImNotStubborn
Summary: Times Jane and Lisbon could have gotten together throughout the years, and consequences.
1. Red Dawn

_This fic has 4 already written chapters, so for once in my life, that means quick updates! (I shit you not)_

 _I know the topic itself is a bit OOC, I just thought it would be fun to write._ _Also, I chose to post the chapters in chronological order, but they're all separate stories._

* * *

 **I. Red Dawn**

 _Jane_

On the night after you've solved your first official case with the team, you're studying the Red John files again from what you could see becoming your couch in the bullpen. You're not one to take these things seriously, but that Elivs-shaped stain on the ceiling might be a sign.

Tonight was the first time you were a part of the case-closed pizza ritual Rigsby is so obviously attached to, and you have to admit it was fun. A bit awkward, and you're not surprised that both male agents still see you as some victims' family, but Lisbon ddidn't seem to mind – in fact, she's the one who came to get you when the pizza arrived.

That woman has picked your interest from the moment you met her. Well, not exactly. It's really the lack of pity in her voice when she suggested you "clean up, you're a mess" after only knowing you for a few hours, that intrigued you. Not everyone would have the nerve to talk that way to a broken man, and still sound caring doing so.

It's been a year and a half since you've opened that door and your world crumbled, but these last few days have helped bringing you back to life – a real life, not the psych ward's odd and dull routine.

You're not sure you should jump right in though. You need to get your revenge, of course, and working here i the closest you'll ever get to the case, but fighting crime after the life you've lead, after robbing and conning as many people as you did? That's a change of career so brutal, for the first time in forever you wonder if you'll be able pull it off.

Although you could probably get used to Senior Agent Teresa Lisbon bossing you around – trying to, anyway. And she definitely has more than just a nice name.

You shake your head at that thought and try to focus back on the file open on your knees, when you suddenly hear a loud noise from that barely concealed place you wouldn't call an office.

 _Lisbon_

You wake up completely alert and remembering every detail.

That stupid phone call to Jimmy. His answering drunk, that you assumed was only due to his birthday celebration and not a hereditary bad habit… but as he said, what the hell would you know? You never call unless you have to, right?

You, hanging up, trying not to cry in the office and instead throwing your stapler across the room – anger is easier to express anyway. And no one was going to hear you at this ridiculous hour, no one ever stayed that late in the bullpen.

Until now.

He didn't comment on what he obviously saw or heard, he simply said that you looked tired. When you grumpily replied that at least you didn't have his own hobo vibe, he laughed.

He offered to walk you to your car and once there, you offered to drive him home. But he doesn't have a home, said the heavy silence following your question.

Ironically, you thought you could use a beer. He agreed it couldn't hurt.

You both drank more than that, and with each empty glass came a funny trick of his, a rare honest laughter from you, and that grin on his face that got brighter and brighter as the hours went by.

Then it was getting late and you suggested he sleep at your place. After all, drinking was your idea, and you didn't know what kind of a creepy motel he would end up in in his state. He accepted and followed you out to call a cab, since your keys stayed with the barman – you were drunk, not amnesic.

It's only when he came with you to your room so that you could give him the pillow and blanket he would need, that the atmosphere changed.

He was just standing a little too close to you. Or maybe it was the swaying of his legs that barely supported his weight, and the hand you put on his chest to help steady him – or was it yourself? you weren't really doing much better.

He said something, maybe a joke, about couches and Elvis. You didn't really listen, you were too busy staring at his lips.

You wondered what they tasted like, and it didn't feel as wrong as it should have, seconds later, when you found out. So you let your inebriated self take the lead and crush both your bodies onto the mattress.

The alarm brings you back to reality, and there's no one in the way when your arm reaches out across the bed to turn it off.

You get ready for work and find your car keys on the kitchen counter. No note, nothing.

When you get to the CBI, of course, a request has been made for the Red John case to be affected to another team. Minelli confirms who asked for that favor, and after the tensed first interaction Mr Jane has had with the CBI, knowing the case isn't going anywhere… maybe starting from scratch with a new agent would be a good idea, what do you think?

You shrug and agree, and if he didn't expect such collaboration from you, your boss doesn't show it. You were truly stuck on that one, after all, and now you've managed to make yourself personally involved in it, too.

The old brown couch is taken to another floor that night, and you never see Jane again in person.

For years after that day, you hear tales of how insufferable Agent Miller's consultant is, about his unique interrogation techniques and the many, many lawsuits he somehow always gets rid of with nothing more than a zillionth warning.

You don't want to care, but you can't help the tiny spark of shame and something else you'd rather not identify, that you feel every time people mention him.

Still, there are murders to be solved and federal promotions to accept.

So eventually, you move on.


	2. Red Badge

_See, I wasn't lying about quick updates._

* * *

 **II. Red Badge**

 ** _Jane_**

Once Rigsby and Cho take away the homicidal psychiatrist, it's just you and Lisbon, standing alone in her living room. She only pretended the drinking part earlier, so you know she's one hundred per cent sober.

That's why when her mouth suddenly covers yours, shock takes over and you don't even dare to move. Then she recoils as suddenly as she's attacked you, and the sight of her makes you stare, still motionless, for a minute.

She's got a look you've only barely caught a glimpse of twice before, when she mentioned her recent memory loss earlier that week, and about a year ago after she asked an alcoholic father to get help for his kids' sake.

You've always had trouble reading her. Not on simple things such as her attempts at lying – who wouldn't see through that – but on her deeper feelings, on the details that concern her past… She's usually something of a mystery.

But what you see on her face now, in the watery drops at the corners of her gorgeous eyes, in the redness of her cheeks contrasting with the paleness of her skin, the slightly quivering lips that tell you she desperately wants to say something but doesn't really know how; all of it is like someone finally handed you the proper glasses to really see Teresa Lisbon.

No more blurry vision of her strength and questioning how much of it is a facade, no more thinking she's some kind of invincible wonder woman who never gets scared or needs comfort after she's been hurt as badly as she's been this week, also, no more wondering how she feels about you. It's all here.

It's a precious gift, and the only way to do it justice would be to allow yourself the exact same openness, to let her see you too.

And you want to. You want her to know you, to know about your childhood and Angela, about how you ran away together and the people you conned when you weren't the best version of yourself, and everything there is to be said about Charlotte.  
You want Lisbon to know that she's saved your life long before she stopped the first bad guy who tried to shoot you, by simply accepting to work with you. You so badly want her to realize that her feelings aren't unrequited.

But Red John is still out there, and you can't allow anything else to ever get in your way to find him.

That's why, as much as you want to, you can't be honest with Lisbon. She realizes something's wrong too, as she starts to move away.

Only, even if this is probably a terrible idea and she's going to hate you – or worse and more likely, herself – for it tomorrow, you can't leave her like this. You'd both deserve so much more in other circumstances, and you can't not offer _anything_ to her, to yourself. To the two of you, really.

So you smile that smirk she loves to hate, and she stills when your hand rises up to grab her neck softly. You play with the curls on the base of her skull and feel the shivers it sends down her spine.

You pull gently at her head until she's kissing you again, and only let go when you need both hands to undress her.

You know it doesn't surprise her, when you don't even pretend to wait until she's asleep to leave.

And it doesn't surprise you when she reminds you in the morning that her team can't really help you – after all, they don't have the Red John case anymore – and therefore you should probably move on.

You recall that conversation a few weeks ago when she admitted she was happy, on some level, that Bosco was getting the case. Her reason for that had been her fear of you losing your mind after the Tanner incident.

It's almost funny how today, it's her own sanity she's protecting by pushing both this poisonous case, and you, away from her.

Not that you resent her for that decision. Back then she'd said that you'd gotten too close, and though at the time she'd meant to Red John, you know it now applies to the two of you.

You don't regret saving her life, and you don't regret sleeping with her.

And that's the whole issue: you already lost, no, _killed_ your best way to get to Red John because you simply had to protect her, and now you've betrayed that promise you'd made to yourself to never be close to another woman ever again, for her.

And you cannot bring yourself to regret any of it.

Teresa Lisbon is changing your order of priorities; there's a part of you that tells you it could be a good thing.

You take a deep breath as you listen to the other part, the one that makes you storm into Virgil Minelli's office with a fake smile and an even faker self-confidence to offer your consulting services to Bosco's team.

 ** _Lisbon_**

You have no idea how the hell Jane convinced Minelli to assign him to Sam's team, but you do hear more frequently than you'd care to, how unhappy it makes your former partner.

Bosco tries to understand the reason you so easily let go of both the man and the investigation, and after a few weeks of stubborn silence on the subject, he seems to finally get it.

He puts a sympathetic hand on your shoulder and tells you you did the right thing – about the _case_ , he obvioulsy means – and since you'd rather not have an actual breakdown in the office, for once you swallow your urge to yell at his patronizing tone.

Things don't get better between Jane and his new team to say the least, and the daily bets on which member will shoot him first almost break your resolve to avoid him at all costs. Except, you're pretty sure he's avoiding you too, so what's the use?

You soon realize that Rigsby, Van Pelt and Cho never take a part in those, and after you take notice of the careful eyes they lay on you every time his name is mentioned around the bullpen, you wonder how long, or not, it took them to figure it out. Maybe the lingering looks you throw in the parking lot despite yourself to check that his car is still there on every morning tipped them off – or could it have been the cup of coffee that's always waiting for you in your office at perfect drinking temperature, no matter when you get here yourself?

It's not that you're mad at him, Jane is – was? – a friend, and that night, he only tried to comfort you the way you wordlessly asked him to. But even though you know he was trying to help, the moment his hands touched your bare skin you realized, without being able or willing to stop what was happening, that it was the worst idea either of you had ever had.

Because there was no way you'd be able to stop your feelings for him from ruining your working relationship after this, and there was no way he could possibly be feeling the same. So instead of the pathetic agent in love with her revenge-obsessed consultant you could see yourself becoming, you opted for the painfully usual, noble and unbreakable Saint Teresa mask, who just had to let go of a team member for professional reasons.

It doesn't really matter that you didn't fool him, as long as you managed to partly fool yourself.

You focus on your own work as best you can, until one day you hear rumors that something new, something Red John related, happened. It's not any of your business anymore; Bosco still immediately gives you the address when you ask for it – and that alone makes your hands shake with dread.

By the time you get there, Sam informs you that they found two bodies, and although you don't give a damn about how they'd know that, it appears one of them is the famous serial killer.

Bosco tries and fails to hide his pride when he adds, as your eyes fall on the second corpse, that at least we finally caught Red John!

Those are the last words you'll ever allow him to speak to you.

Your off duty weapon seems more and more tempting every night.


	3. Rose-Colored Glasses

_Just so you know, I_ am _a bit sorry for that 2nd chapter._

* * *

 **III. Rose-Colored Glasses**

 ** _Jane_**

When the _Extreme_ song ends, it takes you a while to realize it.

You hear Lisbon clear her throat and say something about how you need to get back to headquarters, and from the half-amused, half-concerned tone she's using, she's had to repeat herself.

You take a tiny step back so you're not hugging her so close anymore, your hand refusing to completely let go of hers, and don't bother to hide your emotion.

The familiar banter, over what instrument she used to play this time, the lyrics to that song, and the simple fact that she accepted your invitation to dance when it was just a joke – or more accurately, your last attempt to try and make her feel a little better – were enough to make you a little misty-eyed.

Cautious and caring as she always is whenever she fears your answer, she asks if you're okay. And pushed by an instinct that's not your smartass self but genuine courage that you're daring to say it, you tell her that you should be the one asking that question.

Immediately, you see it. She wants to build up her damn walls again, to pretend she doesn't know what you're talking about. Or maybe yell at you, because she's still mad that you know she needs to be cheered up, when she tries so hard to act like she's fine every day at work.

Either way, this time you don't let her. She's not even done rolling her eyes that you're already repeating the question back to her, your thumb instinctively drawing circles on the back of her hand.

You two are alone right now – as alone as you can be in the middle of a flack of thirty-something strangers reliving their high school years – and you already know the answer. So she has to know this isn't about you wanting to be right, or making fun of her in front of her coworkers.

It's about her, about how ready she is to admit that she might need help these days, about how willing or not she is to tell you the truth.

She swallows hard, staring somewhere between the goosebumps your fingers are leaving on hers, and the floor; you wait.

When she almost imperceptibly shakes her head that no, she's not okay, you can feel your whole body selfishly relax.

Of course you're not enjoying her being in pain, and as much as you couldn't stand the man yourself, you understand what Bosco meant to her both professionally as a mentor, and personally as a friend. Not to mention, you know exactly what it's like to lose someone you're close to in the exact same way she just lost him.

You just can't help but feel relieved that Teresa Lisbon did, that she does trust you. After she's seen how crazy a certain case can make you, after all you know she's been through in her life, and after you told yourself for years that you'd never deserve such a deep connection to another human being ever again, _Lisbon_ trusts _you_ enough to admit that she's having a hard time.

You tilt her chin up, and though you don't smile – you're relatively sure not even you could pity-smile at Teresa Lisbon and live to tell about it – you slowly bring her back in your embrace for another slow song. She lets you, in fact, she brings her body as close to yours as possible, and you're almost positive it's not just to hide the few tears she lets escape.

That one dance turns into five, just like that night that you spend at her place somehow turns into many more.

 ** _Lisbon_**

You don't know what it is, exactly, this thing between you and Jane.

Way too soon for your liking, it stops being a secret – the team's shared look that first time you two arrive exactly 5 minutes apart in the bullpen and Jane's _I-told-you-it-wouldn't-work_ smirk efficiently shatter that illusion – but amazingly, Jane behaves professionaly enough that you don't have to make it official either.

You actually manage to keep your work and private lives separated so well that, even if the need to define this relationship does gnaw at your brain the few times a week his healing insomnia isn't there to fight your less and less frequent nightmares, you're mostly okay with the uncertainty.

Until Kristina Frye comes along again.

You remember how sweaty Jane's hand had gotten in yours on that day, about a year ago, when she'd performed a "séance" to trick the killer into confessing.

His anxiety at the time hadn't been because she was a psychic – there's no such thing as psychics – but because a few hours prior to that, Van Pelt had pushed too hard when voicing her opinions of Jane's beliefs and his family, and the young agent had been so afraid to have done some serious damage that she'd felt the need to confess to you.

So the minute you hear Hightower asking aloud if Jane would be interested in dating Frye, it's not possessiveness that overcomes you. It's worry.

Because back then, Van Pelt had also told you about the tears she'd witnessed on the last night you worked with the eccentric woman, and even if Jane pretends to be all right most of the time, you fear most of it is just that: pretend.

When he declines the rather inappropriate offer politely – and shyly, which would be cute if you didn't know what horrible memories he now links to Kristina – you can't help it, you have to ask if he's okay. He smiles it off and jokes about you being jealous. And it only amuses him more when you deny it in front of the whole team and, of course, no one believes you.

You let it slide for now, silently praying that he's not about to freak out and run away, or do something equally Jane-like so he doesn't have to deal with the situation at hand.

And to your surprise, he doesn't. Instead, he unexpectedly shows up at your door that evening, and after a few hours of pretending it's just an ordinary night he's spending at your place, he almost solemnly thanks you for your concern.

You reply that it's nothing really, it's your job is to look out for him after all.

Neither of you say it, but the mocking smile he has trouble keeping off his face makes you cringe: you both know it's not exactly in your contract to invite him over more often than not and share your bed with him.

He still thanks you again, and you can't tear your eyes away from his as he tells you that he really is, right now, fine. That he hasn't been this close to truly okay, now that he's with you – his words, not yours – in a very long time, and that he would even go as far as to say he's happy.

Kristina Frye doesn't insist on consulting on this case, mentioning some negative energies between her and the consultant – what do you know, she might be psychic after all – and, that simply, her life is saved.

Following that moment, every day Jane spends being with you, every day you spend being with him, comforts you in the idea that you're both slowly but surely getting over your traumatic pasts.

On the day you finally find out Red John's real identity – a mere week after Jane has officially moved in – that assumption turns out even more correct than you'd dared to hope.

Because instead of babbling on about revenge and what kind of a treatment the man deserves, Jane tells you in an unusually low, but firm voice, that maybe you're right. That as hard as it's going to be to follow the rules in this case, bringing the serial killer to justice might just be a better idea than bringing him home to haunt your lives.

So, that's what you do. Together.


	4. Fugue in Red

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed and followed!_

* * *

 **IV. Fugue in Red**

 ** _Lisbon_**

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't say a word, of course not. And you have to fight the guilt-driven nausea to stay here and support him any way you can.

"Take me home, please," he whispers after a while.

"Sure."

.

"This isn't my motel."

His voice sounds hollow, but the ghost of a smile you see on his face makes the boldness of your move worth it.

"No, it's not."

He's reliving the worst night of his entire life, and you thought you'd never get him back before you inflicted him the pain he's in right now. No way in hell were you letting him sleep alone there tonight.

He stares at your building for a moment. Eventually, he pushes the car door open.

"Okay, then."

.

Three am, he's still wide awake. Figures.

You sigh and, afraid of what you'll find, carefully go downstairs.

"Hey, Jane. Can't sleep?"

He doesn't even flinch.

"What, like it's shocking?"

The playful tone is obviously fake, but the familiarity of _this_ Jane makes your heart feel lighter anyway.

"A little. You had no trouble sleeping, and snoring by the way, at the hospital."

"Right. Well, I guess _I_ 'm really back then."

You take a deep breath and try to break the awkward silence.

"For what it's worth, it's good to have you back," and yay, you get a tiny smile for that one. "Mind if I sit?"

"Please, do."

You settle in next to him, covering your legs with the blanket he didn't bother to unfold.

"So, you do remember your behavior of these past few days?"

"Ugh. Most of it, I think," he covers his face with his hands, and you would too. "Which means an apology is in order. I'm sorry I was such an ass, Lisbon."

"Hmm… Nice choice of words, considering."

You've rarely seen Jane confused or embarrassed, but the combination is truly as hilarious as it is unprecedented.

"What…? Oh, my God! Lisbon, I'm so sorry!"

He's so horrified at his own actions that you have to laugh out loud.

"It's okay, Jane. You're lucky I knew it wasn't _you_ or you would've paid for it, but really, we're okay."

He groans and hides his face once more, and all you can do is chuckle as you pat his back reassuringly.

"So," he finally sighs and turns to you. "Why are _you_ still up, Lisbon?"

It stings that he has to ask instead of guessing, but you ignore it and grin instead, as you answer with a half-truth.

"Oh, no reason. It's just that guy crashing on my couch who's watching loud TV in my living room, and who apparently forgot that not all of us are insomniacs."

Jane's eyes open wide as he looks around for the remote – that you just noticed you're sitting on.

"Lisbon, I'm sor-"

"If you apologize one more time, I'm gonna have to seriously reconsider that I actually got my Jane back," you interrupt him, muting the TV yourself.

"... Fair enough."

There's a much more comfortable silence now and you let your tired mind rest a little as a few commercials play on the silent screen, until Jane's back muscles twitch under the hand you left there and his fingers brush against your knee.

"You shouldn't have to, you know," he mutters, almost to himself.

"Huh?" is basically all you can articulate, as you try not to feel the sudden tingling spreading through your leg.

"You shouldn't think it odd that I apologized for stupid things I did. It should be normal."

He still sounds like he's far away somehow, and he refuses to look you in the eye.

It's way too late – or early – for you to be justifying Jane's behavior to the man himself, and on any other night you'd throw him out and mock his pity party. But you're the reason he's in this state and you've finally gotten _your_ Jane back, so your conscience isn't giving you much of a choice.

"Well, I guess… you've never been normal, Jane. And it's not like you don't mean well most of the time–"

"Why did you bring me here tonight, Lisbon?"

He suddenly sounds much more confident as his piercing eyes scrutinize your face, still avoiding your glance.

"What? I don't know, I just didn't want you to be alone–"

He smiles seductively, and if it weren't for the traces of tears on his cheeks you'd truly be worried that he's somehow reverted back to that insufferable version of himself he's been the last couple of days.

"Your hair's sticking out in all directions. It's kind of cute," he cuts in as he plays with one strand, and your voice drops to an embarrassingly aroused whisper when his other hand travels a little higher on your leg.

"… What are you doing, Jane?"

Your reaction seems to sober him up a little and he sighs as he looks away.

The fake, creepy cheerfulness is thankfully gone when he speaks again.

"I don't know. I just want to forget for a while."

His eyes finally meet yours, and you swallow at the intensity in them.

"Jane... Look, I'm sorry I brought you there, okay? I wasn't going to, then I realized that's what you, the real you, would want me to do. But you don't want to forget your family, Jane, it's not right."

He shakes his head violently and his hand tightens on your thigh, though it doesn't hurt.

"No, not like that! I didn't mean... Of course I had to come back! I'm just... I'm a mess right now, and I need to feel something. Something other than the guilt that I _did,_ actually, forget about... them... for days."

He looks like he's about to cry again, and without a thought your hands come up to frame his face. Slowly, a heavy sigh leaving his lips, Jane's head falls on your shoulder, and you let it.

"Jane, it wasn't your fault…" you whisper even though you know it's useless, your nose buried in his hair.

"I need you, Lisbon," he says after a few minutes and, when he backs up to face you again, there isn't much you can do.

Your heart is beating too fast, your skin is too hot wherever it's in contact with his.

As you try to logically consider it, the relief of having him back after thinking you'd lost him forever overflows you again, making you wonder which one of you needs the other more.

"Okay."

.

It's been two weeks, and you can't tolerate this anymore. Jane disobeying is nothing new, but Jane trading himself for hostages by insulting a mentally unstable killer and almost getting shot for the third time in half a month, now that's a whole new level of fucked up.

And now here he is, pretending to be asleep on your couch, ready for another pointless round of letting you yell at him only to flee and keep acting this way.

"What the hell were you thinking, Jane? You could've gotten yourself killed!"

He's annoyingly expecting you slamming the door; it still feels good to release part of your anger that way.

"Oh, give me a break," he snorts as he stands up smoothly. "You have your killer, go interrogate him and leave me alone."

"You're not going anywhere, Jane. And you can't talk to me like that!"

He's got that crazy look now, the one that means he's being a clueless jerk on purpose.

"Oh, really? And why not, Teresa?"

"Because I'm your boss," and oh, how you'd like to punch the smile off his face. "Look… this has gone on for too long. You have to stop."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Right on: clueless jerk act.

"Yes, you do. You're mad at me for what happened two weeks ago and you refuse to talk about it–"

He starts to walk away, toward the bullpen, but you're not done. You almost run to the door and stand there, arms crossed over your chest.

"Oh no, you're not getting out of this one, Jane! Sit down, we need to talk."

He glares at you now, all trace of fake humor gone.

"We don't."

"Jane, yes we–"

"We _don't_ , Lisbon!" He growls lowly, and though you hate to see that side of him, you don't move an inch.

He sighs and puts his hands on your shoulders. It's not the threatening gesture you feared it would be, it feels more like he's using you to help keep himself upright; and the sudden proximity allows you to see how exhausted he really is.

"I'm not mad at you, alright? I'm mad at myself. What I did was wrong, and there is nothing I can do to fix it. So let's just pretend nothing happened and go back to work."

"I don't think it's a good idea to ignore what _we_ did, Jane," you try again, but the deep, annoyed breath he takes lets you know that was the wrong thing to say.

"Well, you're in charge of the Red John case and I want in, so I guess we're just going to have to forget about this."

Gently but firmly, he nudges you out of the way, and since you're clearly going nowhere, this time you allow him.

"I'm going upstairs now, and I'd like to not be disturbed. See you tomorrow."

He's gone in a second.

"Look where wanting to forget got us in the first place," you tell your empty office.

 _._

 _._

 ** _Jane_**

This is a good thing, you tell yourself as you down your eighth shot of the night.

Lisbon is more stubborn than most, and when other people would have – and did, like the rest of the team – stopped calling and texting after a few weeks, she's only finally stopped today. Six months after you landed in Vegas.

It's a good thing that she's done trying, you tell yourself again, it means that your plan to lure out Red John has a lot more chances of working now.

And so what if her voice mails had been the closest thing to a lifeline lately, or the only way for you to remember that this is all a play and you're not actually depressed or crazy, or both?

You don't want her help, and you don't need her getting in the way of what you really need.

In fact, the more estranged you two become, the safest she'll be, you remind yourself as you finally get up from the bar stool.

For the first time since you've been here, you don't have to fake the drunken walk back to your hotel.

.

She's pretty.

She's obviously broken and twisted, and there must be a lot more to her story than even you can guess right now, but you have to admit that Red John has good taste, because Lorelei is _very_ pretty.

The morning she tells you that she works for him, you have to gather all of your acting skills to look shocked.

You make her leave, sit back down on your bed and take a few minutes to convince yourself of how important this whole masquerade is.

More important than you thinking about another brunette, the entire night you spent in Lorelei's arms. More important than not having heard a word from said other woman in over two days now.

When you meet the minion again, she tells you that Red John has a gift for you, a gift to help you move on from your previous life and remind you of who he is.

She drives you to a patch of deserted land not so far from the city, and lets you open the squared box covered in sparkly wrapping paper that kept hitting the back of your seat on the way here.

You pass out the second you recognize, in the dark red mess surrounding her head, the greenness of Teresa Lisbon's lifeless eyes.

* * *

 _In my defense, I didn't come up with the creepy "decapitated head" theme, the s4 finale writers did._

 _But, yeah, sorry._


End file.
